


The Ring

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is forced into an underground fighting ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yes I know I’ve written about Fenris in gladiatorial arena combat before but I am weak of spirit please forgive me.  
> Tagged as Fenris/Male Hawke but takes place during the 3 yr gap.  
> This is not a happy fic. If you’re looking for any rays of sunshine, I recommend searching elsewhere.
> 
> Thanks to [ticklishivories](http://ticklishivories.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this fic!!

Fenris is awoken by a slap to the face.

Not terribly hard, but it does the job, and he takes a long, deep breath. He has the nagging feeling something bad has happened.

“Oi. Knife-ear.”

His eyes flick upward.

Crouched before him, in the sputtering torchlight that splashes through the open door—the thickset man with the pocked face and bushy eyebrows. The one with whom he met tonight (last night? he’s inside now, with no way to tell the time) on the promise of information about a certain elven woman from Tevinter…

That isn’t what he got, of course. What he got was assaulted, someone leaping on him as he faced this man. He dispatched the first attacker but there must have been another. The wound still burns in his lower back where the throwing knife struck him.

The next he remembers is…this, whatever it is.

A small, empty room without windows. His armor is gone, although they’ve left his clothes. The stone floor is cool against his bare arm. Dully he realizes his wrists are shackled. He could slip those. Not that he should. There are men with clubs here. They would be on him as soon as his lyrium began to glow.

“Right then,” the man says. “You picked a fight with the wrong people. So now you get to pay the price.”

Picked a fight with the wrong people? What is he talking about? Fenris reserves that for later. The only important thing now is figuring out how to escape.

“Here’s what’s going to happen: you fight. People watch. They place bets.” He jabs a thumb into his chest. “We rake in the profits.”

Fighting for sport. Fenris’s lip curls a little. It was popular in Tevinter. Apparently present in Kirkwall, too.

And now he’s been dragged into it, because he was careless and inattentive and let himself be taken.

“Don’t worry,” the man tells him. “That poison should be wearing off sometime soon. When we put you out there you’ll be ready to hold your own.”

Fenris grunts and struggles to sit up. The men with clubs stiffen. He offers them only a sullen glare. “I’m not going to fight for you.”

His captor raises one bushy eyebrow. “You’re going in the ring no matter what.”

“Fine. If your audience will be entertained by seeing an elf beaten into the ground without a single punch thrown in return—not far-fetched, it must be said—then by all means put me in your ring. But I’m not going to fight.”

The man taps his chin. “All right. Here’s the situation: it’s mid-morning. You don’t fight ’til tonight. How about no food or water? You want water, you have to win ten bouts. Food costs fifteen.”

Fenris stares. He can’t be serious. _“Fifteen_ bouts?”

“All in a row, don’t worry. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Absurd. “You can’t expect me to win fifteen bouts in a row.”

A shrug. “Most of our fighters are amateurs. You’re not.”

So he is known. Not altogether surprising. He’s been in Kirkwall five years and makes his living by fighting. Once more he scans the room—the flick of his gaze enough to make the gathered thugs tense, clubs at the ready. Known indeed. They’re afraid of him. He would prefer overconfidence; easier to escape that way.

“See you tonight, knife-ear.” The man rises and jerks his head. He and his entourage parade from the room, closing the door behind him. Fenris is plunged into darkness, but for the wan torchlight that filters beneath the crack in the door.

No idea where he is (underground, he can guess that much—not the least bit helpful). No idea how many watch him beyond those men with the clubs. He does have some idea of what they’ll do if his escape attempt fails. Chains, a locked door, depriving him of food and water—hardly scratching the surface. There is plenty more they could take from him. And the caution with which he’s been treated does not bode well for his success.

He needs more information, which he won’t get locked up here. And he isn’t like Hawke, he can’t stay invisible in a building full of people. If he breaks out to learn more he’ll be caught and punished.

So he’ll just have to do his reconnaissance tonight when they take him out to fight. Ideally he’ll find an opening before they throw him into this “ring.” If not…he’ll end the night beaten and bruised no matter how many bouts he wins, so he should strive for fifteen. He will need the food to bolster his strength.

Fenris shifts back against the wall, his shackles clanking. Berating himself is a waste of time yet he does it anyway. He should have sensed something was wrong at that meeting, but he was too desperate, after two years of nothing, for information about his sister. About Varania.

Fenris exhales. He will make up the mistake by learning from it. He has taken to letting his guard down since settling in Kirkwall.

But there are enemies everywhere. He must begin to remember that once again.

——

He tries not to spend too much time cursing his carelessness as he waits, although it’s difficult to refrain. He is not well-loved in Kirkwall’s underworld—has done many favors for Aveline over the years, and has not been shy about it—yet he still attempts to make deals with them. This betrayal was only a matter of time. He should have asked someone to come with him. Should have asked Hawke.

Fenris shuts his eyes for a moment. Hawke. Almost three years since he fled the estate in the middle of the night and they’re even closer now than they were then. He trusts Hawke completely, which is something he’s never had with anyone. But he welcomes the feeling. No doubt their friends wonder why they aren’t together yet; at this point it seems a formality.

Fenris asks it of himself now, as he waits. Why aren’t they together yet?

He gazes down at his cuffed wrists and searches for an answer.

Eventually his focus shifts to more practical things, such as escape. Always he runs into the barrier of _no information._ So instead he waits for hours in the dark, watching torchlight skim over the stone floor, and tries not to think of what’s about to happen to him. He does not mind being hurt when the cause is just. But this is not just. He doesn’t deserve this.

But again, he was careless and foolish and should have known better than to meet a new contact alone. Fenris grimaces and pushes the thought from his mind with effort.

There is a sound at the door. The lock clicks. It is time.

His escort is generous and well-armed. The man from earlier leads them. They still carry clubs. Blunt weapons. They don’t want him dead. There are hundreds in Kirkwall who would pay to see him beaten, after all the times he’s been hired to fight off smugglers or thieves or volunteered to help the city guard. He’s going to make his captors rich.

He shuffles down the hall. His stomach growls. As doors and cross-corridors slip by he looks for exits, clues to the layout of this place. There are more thugs. What is this place? It’s certainly well-staffed. He spots a staircase. That will be a good place to start.

When he has a chance, that is. He doesn’t have one now. Too many guards. It will have to wait. He swallows. It doesn’t help much. His throat is dry, very dry, and his head pounds from the thirst.

Ten bouts for water. Fifteen for food. Forced to obey orders in exchange for basic needs. Danarius used the tactic early on, though he tapered it off eventually, when obedience became to Fenris a default mode of being rather than an act that required persuasion.

He hates it. He remembers those days well, the implication that he did not deserve food or water without earning them first. A sick feeling, to be told at every turn that he was lesser—and how could he refute it? He had no memories that said otherwise, and Danarius was so attentive, so patient, would never deceive him.

What infuriates him is not that he should have known better. He was little more than a child and should not have had to know better. It was the realization that came later, after his escape, of how he was manipulated into becoming an agent of his own breaking—and purely for Danarius’s pleasure. For his amusement.

It took him a long time to digest that. The humiliation came first, and he thought that was all there was; but somewhere along the way the anger came to him too, and he owes everything to the anger, he thinks. Almost everything. The rest he owes to Hawke and Aveline and the others.

Who aren’t here right now. And the anger denied because he cannot fight back, or he risks punishment. So all that’s left is the humiliation. Ten bouts for water. Fifteen for food. He stares at his chained hands and swallows again.

Then his escort stops. A short trip.  Fenris halts with them before a thick wooden door. Beyond, the murmur of conversation. The man in front knocks twice.

Another minute. Fenris curls his toes into the stone. Unarmed fighting. He doesn’t have much chance to use these forms, but he practices them often with Hawke. The man unlocks his shackles. Fenris rubs his wrists and rotates his ankles.

He doesn’t want to walk out there. He doesn’t want to serve as an evening’s entertainment for a crowd of angry people. He doesn’t want to be forced to fight until he’s too injured to stand back up. Yet it seems he must do these things anyway.

Is it always going to be like this? Is there something about him that demands abuse? That invites subjugation?

The door swings open.

An expansive room with a high ceiling, the center of attention a canvas-floored ring caged by grimy iron bars. Around it people are crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder, perhaps ten deep on the floor before the stands rise up—the _stands?_ what is this place?—for a dozen rows. And above a shadowed balcony, jam-packed with yet more spectators. Enormous braziers hang from the ceiling and torches ring the iron bars.

His escort pushes ahead, parting the crowd and clearing a narrow path. He is shoved forward and stumbles over the stone, advancing with reluctance. As soon as he steps out of the door the crowd erupts. The noise is deafening, enough to make him cringe. Someone spits in his face as he goes, and a second person a few feet later. He wonders vaguely how he has offended them.

Wooden stairs. He ascends, ducks through the open gate. It clangs shut behind him, sealing him in the ring. The canvas floor has been cleaned, but it’s still spotted with old blood, splashes of dingy brown scattered across its surface. He reaches out, unsteady, and grasps one of the bars. Caged again. What is in him that provokes this treatment? That makes others want to control and hurt him?

His throat is dry. He’s hungry. Hasn’t eaten in…a full day, by now. He can fight when he’s hungry as well as ever, but not as long. Which will be a problem here.

Ten bouts for water. Fifteen for food.

He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to get hurt. His fingers tighten around the rough iron. He’s only been gone a day. No one will be looking for him yet. Will they make him fight again tomorrow?

His first opponent pushes through the crowd.

A short, stocky human whose swollen lump of a nose speaks testimony to the depth of his past experience here. He steps through the gate into the ring, and the crowd cheers for him. As he raises his arm Fenris spots a mark—a brand just off his shoulder, a circle studded with spikes.

Fenris knows that symbol. He saw a tattoo of it on the back of Hawke’s shoulder, years ago; Hawke would only say it was a “stupid mistake,” and he laughed it off and changed the subject. The next time Fenris saw his back it was gone, removed as if by magic (and it likely was).

So why is it here?

No time to think about it. The man is charging.

He broadcasts the punch, and Fenris slips outside of it, anticipating a follow-up. The man swivels, and Fenris circles back again, the low jab falling short of him. _Venhedis._ He can’t spend the entire fight dodging. He has to win. That’s the only way to earn food and water.

So Fenris moves away, drawing another blow that overextends past his face. Too easy. Fenris wraps his arm around the other man’s, locking it up—

—finds a foot hooking behind his heel and yanking. Not so easy after all. Fenris tries to regain his balance but his foot is still captured, and he goes down, his back thumping into the canvas. The man’s arm slides out of his grasp, which isn’t altogether a bad thing, since he needs that hand to drag himself away—not quite fast enough, the man straddling his right thigh and pinning him there.

Lessons from Hawke come to him, and immediately he shields his head as his opponent’s fists start coming down. The cheering is louder now. This will not do. He has to win. So he wraps his trapped foot around his opponent’s ankle and uses it as leverage to lift his hip off the canvas, into the man’s body. The man stops attacking and leans down, caging Fenris against the floor of the ring. Fenris reaches low with his left hand, trapping the man’s arm and capturing his belt. With his right hand he finds the man’s knee and grabs his trouser leg.

Then he rocks upward. Not enough force to free himself. But he doesn’t need that much. The man pushes back, intent on maintaining control. There. Fenris slips the hook and plants his right foot, lifts hard with his hips, and uses the momentum to heave his opponent through the air and off to the side.

The man thumps down on his back, and Fenris scrambles on top of him, raining down a flurry of blows before the man has a chance to recover and raise a guard. Blood smears over his knuckles. His own? Probably, some of it. The man is dazed early, and his hands flail, weak and undirected. Fenris, without anything else to do, keeps punching him. How long does he have to do this before they call the bout?

At last the creak of the gate, and someone shouting for him to stop. He rises and steps away, rubbing his hands absently. That hurt. It’ll get worse before the end, of course. His hands will be destroyed by the time this is over.

One victory. Fourteen to go. Fenris finds his breath coming a little fast, and he inhales through his nose, exhales slowly. He will need to preserve his energy. A pair of guards come in to the ring and drag his opponent away. After they go through the gate a lean elf comes through, his long hair tied back in a severe ponytail. Fenris readies himself.

He wins. He wins that fight, and the next. _Three._ The word forming on his lips as he grasps the iron bars. One-fifth of the way there. His next opponent comes through, an older man with a scraggly gray beard. They all have the same style—close to the same style, and not dissimilar from Hawke’s. But that doesn’t make things much easier. It’s quick and improvisational, hard to predict or counter. The best Fenris can do is survive and look for holes of which to take advantage.

His opponents don’t care much for defense. They leave plenty of holes. After all, they don’t have to worry about fighting any more bouts. So Fenris can connect with a few blows, when he needs to. But of course they’re ready to leap on him as soon as he takes a chance. The fifth slips in a clever lock and almost manages to pop his shoulder out of his socket; he pays for his escape with a broken rib (hears the _snap_ when the strike lands _)_ but his shoulder remains intact. By the seventh Fenris decides he is tired, and he’s too slow in moving his foot away when his opponent stomps at it. His opponent is twice his size. The foot is smashed. Fenris retaliates, and it’s only luck that his fist catches just the right spot, whipping the man’s enormous head to the side and knocking him unconscious.

The guards wake the man and haul him off. Fenris limps to the side and examines his hands. His knuckles are bloody, and the backs of his hands are bruised and swollen. Those are probably broken too. “Seven,” he murmurs to himself.

He isn’t even halfway.

Eight. Nine. Tired. It hurts to put weight on his foot. Can’t move as well anymore. He’s taken a few hits to the nose, but this time he feels the break, and blood cascades down over his lips. Hard to breathe. Doesn’t matter. He has to keep going. The cheering is ceaseless, winnowed down to a constant stream, a hollow rushing in his ears. Vaguely he wonders if they’re cheering for him by now, or just for his defeat. Another shot to his ribs, which he accepts, letting it rotate his body. He jams his shoulder into the woman’s chest and shoves her off her feet.

Fenris wins that fight too. _Nine._ One more and then—something. What was it? Water.

He has to keep going.

His tenth opponent is Rivaini, his skin scattered with scars. A career fighter, and not just in the ring. He’s got the brand too, as several of the others have (as Hawke had), the spiked circle just to the left of his breastbone. Fenris curls his broken hands into fists.

They engage.

This one’s had some training. Fenris recognizes the pieces of Antivan forms, warped both by Rivaini adaptations and the tricks he must have picked up in the Marches. That might have posed a difficulty to his other opponents, but for Fenris it is a relief. He knows these forms. In Tevinter he was a shield wall for his master, trained to counter martial forms from Antiva, Nevarra, Orlais, and places further.

They fall into a rhythm. Fenris slips into his Tevinter forms, which appear to be familiar to his opponent as well. Their clashes are explosive and discrete; they will strike at each other for a few seconds and then break apart, circling. Fenris is breathing hard, his badly bruised chest aching with each inhalation. His broken foot hurts each time he puts weight on it. Might this be the fight he loses?

No. He has to keep going. He has to win.

Another engagement. Fenris diverts a blow, blocks the next, throws an elbow at the man’s nose. It doesn’t connect, and they separate once more, Fenris limping around the edge of the ring. Ah. There’s an idea. When he arrived in Kirkwall he relied purely on his forms in battle; that might work here, but he is tired and that makes him slow, perhaps too slow for someone who knows his training. Fighting at Hawke’s side for five years has changed his tactics some. He still relies on his forms, true; he simply augments them with a few less conventional tricks.

The man approaches. Fenris allows him to close. He suspects he’ll pay for this, but he needs to prioritize saving his strength over avoiding injury. Dodge, counter, divert. Fenris feints—one he used before, that was recognized then just like it is now. The man strikes out.

Fenris takes the open palm in his chest— _pain_ —and lets it shove him back. When he goes to set his stance again he stutters on the broken foot, and his opponent darts in to take advantage.

Good. Fenris swivels on the bad foot, and his kick lands flat against the man’s temple.

He crumples, unconscious before he hits the ground. Fenris kneels, tightening his jaw. Too much weight on bones that couldn’t support it. Something broke or tore, something further. _Venhedis._ But he’s won again, and that’s all that matters. The next fighter is already coming through the gate. Fenris takes a deep breath, wincing, his heart thumping from the exertion, and rises.

Eleven. Twelve. He’s exhausted. He only just gets away from blows in time, and takes some he wouldn’t have taken if his body still had the strength to move as it should. Their fists flatten bruises into his chest, sides, and stomach, their feet thumping into his legs. His face is battered and bloody by now. His hands are well and truly broken, but he can still get them to curl into fists, which is all they need to do. Each bout is less of a fight than a period of him weathering his opponent’s strikes until they leave an opening into which he pours every scrap of energy he has left. It shouldn’t work as long as it does; but the lyrium glows faintly, burning his skin, and feeds him just enough strength to get by.

Thirteen. He wonders how many of his ribs are broken. Fourteen. “Fourteen,” he whispers to himself through swollen lips, sagging back against the bars. Just one more and he’ll hit fifteen. That seems important for some reason. The woman isn’t rousing after the uppercut he gave her, so the guards have to ferry her away. There’s blood all over the mat. Much of it is his. His nose is still bleeding, and his mouth has been cut to ribbons on the edges of his teeth.

It doesn’t matter. He has to keep going. He pants for breath, blood bubbling as it drips down the back of his throat.

The hollow rushing in his ears surges. The crowd, cheering. Fenris blinks, refocuses.

Two people come through the gate.

Fenris shuts his eyes briefly. Two at once. It’s impossible. He won’t win. With great effort he pushes himself off the bars and stands. A man and a woman. They look like siblings. Fenris coughs, spits out blood.

They drift to either side of him. Fenris wavers, hobbling on the bad foot. He has to try. He needs to win.

They attack.

Fenris blocks what would put him down and takes the rest. Hard blows thump into his back. This won’t last long. They’re feeling him out right now and not finding much to give them pause. Fenris throws a kick. Slow, pitifully slow. It’s blocked, and the woman steps into a jab, swiveling her hips. Fenris manages to divert it past his head—

A heel smashes into his left knee, buckling it sideways. The man, behind him. The pain is frayed and burning, and the joint shifts and slides _._ Immediately Fenris knows it’s destroyed. Still he staggers, hopping back, trying to right himself, but the knee collapses and he crashes to the canvas.

A foot whips out at his head. He thinks of blocking it.

Then it takes him in the jaw and he blacks out.

——

Fenris is awoken by a slap to the face.

Quite hard this time. He squints and coughs out some blood-thick saliva. Another hard slap. His head snaps to the side.

“Come on, knife-ear.” The voice distant and tinny in his ears. “Get up.”

 _Slap._ It stings. He tries to say something. Anything. It comes out as a low moan.

 _Slap._ “Come on. Why won’t you get up?”

He can’t get up. The woman is sitting on his hips, but even if it were not so he could not get up. His strength is gone. It’s gone. There’s nothing left.

 _Slap._ His head whips to the side again. The voice a little less tinny now. “That’s it? You done already?”

Yes. Done. The thought rouses in him such a surge of emotion tears spring to his eyes. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He wants to go home— _no,_ he wants to go to the estate. Wants for Hawke to answer the door, to see him and embrace him softly and kiss his hair and tell him everything’s going to be all right.

 _Slap._ “Think that’s it. He’s not getting up anymore.”

“Please,” Fenris mumbles.

The weight on his hips shifts. He gazes up, bleary. A fist rises in the air, directly above his face.

“All right!” Another voice, booming. “I think he’s had enough!”

The woman rises. Fenris stays where he is, lain out on the canvas. The pain begins to soak into his awareness. He hurts. Everything hurts.

Someone else. The man with the bushy eyebrows, crouching over him. Grabbing the front of his shirt and lifting him up. “Maker. You’re beat to shit.” A broad grin. “The way it should be, you ask me.”

Something surfaces from the haze of pain, a sharp, brilliant glint like a dagger-flash. Anger.

Fenris spits in the man’s face.

The man scrapes the red gob from his cheek and grabs Fenris’s jaw, a snarl peeling his lips back. But it abates a moment later, and he jerks his head at one of his guards. “I think fourteen bouts merits the champion’s mark, don’t you?”

The guard strides away, reaching through the bars. Fenris sees him take something down from one of the braziers that ring the cage. Then the man throws Fenris face-down on the canvas, kneeling on his back and capturing his wrists together. The pressure on Fenris’s battered ribcage is agony, and he gasps, inhaling blood and coughing it up again. There’s a bloom of heat by his face, and he blinks—

A spiked circle, glowing orange with heat. A brand.

Terror surges through him, turning his stomach. He tries to struggle, but his feeble efforts do nothing to budge the weight on his back. A hand pulls his shirt collar down, exposing the back of his shoulder. No. No. He doesn’t want to be marked.

The brand sinks into him.

Skin burning away. Muscle bubbling and melting. Fenris yells into the canvas, no thought spared to preserving his dignity. The pain obliterates everything. The mark. It’ll be seared into him, permanently.

Then the burning is gone, and he breathes in deep, rapid lungfuls of air. Is it over? Are they finished with him?

They try to get him to stand but he can’t support his own weight. So two of them heave his arms around their shoulders and drag him away. His feet trail down the wooden steps and over the stone. Blood drips from his nose and mouth and dots the floor beneath him.

Torches slide by on either side. They take him into a dark room and drop him there. He slumps to the floor. It’s over. For now, at least, it’s over. He curls up.

“Sorry, elf.” Someone crouches in front of him and sets down a wooden bowl. Water sloshes over the lip. “You didn’t make fifteen bouts. Looks like you’ll be going hungry tonight.”

Fenris gazes at the bowl for a moment. He’s exhausted.

He shuts his eyes.

——

The balcony is crammed with people, jostling and shoving to keep their place in line. As they wait to collect their winnings they argue about which was the best bout. _The tenth, with Rahiz,_ someone says. Then the indignant reply, _no, the seventh, with Big Bennett!_

Hawke isn’t listening. He leans against the railing, gazing at the bloodied canvas, stroking his beard in thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke goes down the hall wearing a stony frown.

He’s not worried about being recognized—his name is known, but not his face, he’s been very particular about that. And especially not in these dim, torch-lit hallways. He’ll be unfamiliar, but his purposeful stride will deflect questions. And anyway, he has a cover story.

This shouldn’t have happened.

_Huge event at the Iron Ring._ That was the word around Darktown. Hawke, with a twinge of self-reproach, decided to go (prizefighting isn’t exactly the most noble of sports). He arrived late but managed to elbow his way up to the balcony. As he waited, snatches of conversation surfaced from the surrounding babble. _—going as long as he can. —bouts did you bet? —dangerous, I put fifteen silvers on twelve. —that long? Really?_

And then they dragged Fenris out into the ring and Hawke had to stop and shake his head and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opened them Fenris was still there and another fighter was walking in.

This shouldn’t have happened.

The Iron Ring hires its fighters. It puts out a call for new blood, and when people come in and fight a bout they get paid. If they’re any good, they stay on for a while, get popular, make more money. No one’s forced into it, ever.

Until now, apparently. Because Fenris sure as blazes didn’t want to be there. Hawke shifts, rubs the back of his shoulder. Damn it all. Revenge for last week’s raid, he’d bet. Aveline and the city guard took down the Redwater Teeth a few nights back, snatching up all the top brass. The organization’s destroyed. And, of course, the Iron Ring was their biggest partner.

Fenris went on that raid as a favor to Aveline. The guard is untouchable—too dangerous to go after them, too much risk of retaliation.

Fenris isn’t part of the guard.

Hawke grimaces. He’s going to have words with Jobelle after this. She still runs both rings and will no doubt be upset when she loses the Darktown venue. Which she will by tomorrow night if Hawke’s plan goes off as it’s supposed to.

After Fenris was dragged off, he waited until the place emptied out, until all the winnings had been dispensed and some of the security guards had headed home. The cover of a crowd is helpful in a lot of situations, but not now. Fenris is rather noticeable. Hawke’s never been in the back here but the place isn’t big enough to get lost in, and he’s not worried about finding an exit. Now he just needs to find Fenris. As he goes he passes by a good number of guards with clubs at their belts. Cormac Shaw covers this ring while Jobelle supervises the Lowtown one, and he’s notoriously meticulous. Extra security is worth the money with crowds like this. Better that than people getting stabbed over drunken disputes. Brawls aren’t good for profits.

Hawke scans as he walks. Damn it all. Where have they hidden him? He’s got to still be here—they wouldn’t have moved him off-site, would they? Hawke’s heart seizes in his chest. Should have thought of that earlier. Who knows where they might take him, what they’ll do to him once he’s there—

To his left a short corridor comes into view, with a lone guard standing in front of a closed wooden door. Hawke stops. “This where you’re keeping him?”

The man lifts an eyebrow. “Who wants to know?”

Thank the Maker. “Carver Dunn. Cormac put me on to handle the elf.” Hawke approaches, turning his back to the single torch at the end of the hall. “He’s got some potential buyers upstairs who’d like to see the merchandise. You want to open the door?”

The man snorts. “We don’t need someone special to handle him. Did it just fine tonight.”

Hawke fixes him with a level gaze—no threat there, but he lays on a mild condescension. “Cormac told me how many people that elf’s killed. You’d do well not to underestimate someone like that. Now are you going to open up that door or not?”

His stature helps, the way he towers over this guard; and the confidence, and the condescension, of course. The man defers to him, tugging a key from his belt, unlocking the door and swinging it open. Dim torchlight ventures into the small, dark room.

Hawke had expected it would be bad. He saw the sort of punishment Fenris took in the ring, bout after bout after bout. It’s worse up close. Little blotches of blood dot the floor around his head; his lips are swollen and split, his eyes blackened, his hands frozen awkwardly, no doubt broken in a dozen places. His breaths come shallow and quick even though he’s asleep. Doesn’t hurt as much that way.

Hawke stands very still. The burgeoning flood of worry and fear, the heartsick swell of love, all threatening to burst through him and ruin everything. _Cage it up._ He exhales, long and even. _Cage it up._

He cages it up.

On the floor there’s a bowl of water, still full. Hawke makes a noise of disgust. “Fantastic.” He kneels and slides his arms under Fenris’s upper body, lifting him gently to a sitting position. “Come on, let’s get some water in you.”

The guard, standing in the doorway, shifts. “I thought you were taking him upstairs.”

Hawke glares over his shoulder. “I am. But he’s supposed to look salable. Which he really doesn’t right now, so I’m hoping some water will perk him up a bit.” _Like a wilted plant,_ he thinks distantly, as Fenris’s face creases in pain.

A quiet moan, and at last his green eyes flicker open—dull, rising, finding Hawke and beginning to brighten—

Hawke cuts in before Fenris can give him away. “You’re going to drink this and then you’re going to come with me, _nice and easy,_ to see Cormac. Make a fuss and I’ll put you down again, is that clear?”

A flinch of fear—shit—but he nods.

Hawke lifts the bowl to his lips and tips it back.

Fenris drinks eagerly, lifting his broken hands to the bowl, but after a second he starts coughing so Hawke pulls it back and sighs. “Do me a favor and don’t choke to death before I can get paid, all right?”

Fenris nods and reaches out again.

He swallows more slowly this time, red-tinged droplets running down his bloodied lips and dripping from his chin. It’s nowhere near enough water—not with the exertion of those fifteen bouts, not with all the blood that sprayed from his nose or that he spat out or swallowed. Still, it’s better than nothing. Hawke holds Fenris close to keep him upright. But when the bowl is empty, Fenris leans suddenly into his chest and clutches at his shirt with stiff, shaking fingers.

_Cage it up._

Hawke sets the bowl down. “Right then. Time to go.” He grasps Fenris under the armpits and hauls him up.

Once upright, Fenris wavers, staggering a little, and Hawke's afraid to let him go lest he collapse. His right foot is badly smashed, toes awry—Hawke remembers that stomp—but still he seems to prefer putting weight on it over the other side. His left lower leg is clumsy, his knee refusing to straighten. Knees are delicate. His must be blown with that kick at the end there.

But Hawke's cover is already precarious, and compassion will wear it further. So he grasps Fenris's left arm, his weaker side, and pulls him forward.

Fenris can hardly walk and Hawke has to support his full body weight with every other step. He’s hurt. He’s hurt so badly.

Hawke doesn’t say anything, and Fenris doesn’t either. It’s better that way. The guards are already eyeing him as they pass by in the hallways, and even the briefest conversation might destroy their cover. Instead Fenris only limps along silently, Hawke still holding tight to his arm. They take a right, heading for that staircase Hawke spotted earlier. Just at the end of the corridor—

A door bangs open in front of them and a man walks out, sees them, and starts.

Shit. Hawke stops, calm as ever, and draws to one side to let the man pass. But he doesn’t pass, only raises one bushy eyebrow. “Who in the Void are you? And what’re you doing with the elf?”

Hawke lets out a quiet sigh. “Carver Dunn. Cormac put me on to handle the elf. I’m bringing him upstairs so some buyers can get a look at him.”

_“Buyers?_ No. We still got money to make off him.”

Hawke shrugs. “Take it up with Cormac, if you like.”

A couple more people drift out of the room into the hall. An audience. That’s just great. The man narrows his eyes and comes closer, grasping Fenris’s face with one thick hand and tilting it. “Pretty beat up, isn’t he?”

“Just a bit,” Hawke says mildly.

“Then they won’t notice a few more bruises.” He jerks his head. “Come on. Let me see for myself what this elf’s got.”

Fuck. “You—you want to _fight_ him? It won’t be much of a fight, he can’t even stand without someone holding him up.”

“Oh, he’s supposed to be dangerous, isn’t he?” The man grins. “Let’s see it then. Oi!” He snaps his fingers and calls into the room. “Clear the floor!”

Bustling from past the door. Hawke pauses just a bit too long. The man narrows his eyes. “Listen, you obviously don’t know how things work around here. I’m the captain of security at this ring, which means I’m in charge of everybody. _Especially_ new hires. So snap to it and _do as I say.”_

Hawke exhales. There’s no way this bastard will defer to a newcomer—not without causing a scene. And the second Hawke fights back his cover is blown and everything goes to shit. They’ll know he’s an enemy, they’ll be on him—not to mention Fenris, who’s already badly crippled. Too unpredictable. And even if Hawke does manage to drag them both out of there, the whole establishment will disappear underground within hours, scuttling back into the woodwork.

Hawke makes a decision. They won’t kill Fenris. The man was right about future profits. They’re just going to hurt him a bit more, and then he and Hawke will be free to go with nobody the wiser for it. The man stands square in the middle of the hall, waiting. “Well? Get him in there. It won’t take long.”

Hawke goes to the doorway, pulling Fenris along. There’s a tug of resistance. He looks up.

Fenris is gazing at him with a blank face. Nothing to disturb the cover story. But their eyes lock as they have so many times before, and Hawke doesn’t need to hear any pleas, to see any hints of desperation to understand.

He pulls again on Fenris’s arm. Fenris stumbles after him into the room.

Some sort of break room. Two heavy wooden tables have been shoved against the walls, creased playing cards scattered over them and chairs stacked on top. There’s a good-sized space left, enough for the half-dozen guards to set themselves up in a loose circle at the edges. The captain steps into the circle and cracks his knuckles.

Hawke brings Fenris forward and then lets him go, stepping away to join the guards.

Fenris manages to stay upright, wobbling a little. He keeps his weight on the broken foot, his left leg little more than an unstable crutch. His hands curl stiffly into fists.

The captain puts up a boxing stance and takes a swing.

Fenris dodges and lashes out with a counter. The captain doesn’t twist away in time; the blow clips his chin, and he growls. But the strike has thrown Fenris off-balance. As he struggles to stay on his feet, the captain throws another punch.

It takes Fenris in the cheek, and he stumbles into one of the guards, who catches him and pushes him back out into the open space. The captain allows him a second to steady himself, then throws another punch anyway before he’s managed it. This one smashes into his mouth and sends him reeling. He falls into Hawke’s chest.

Hawke grasps his shoulders and sets him upright, then steps back.

Fenris wavers a moment, then limps forward to face the captain again.

Another punch, which he hops away from. His counter is weak, conservative so as not to throw off his tenuous balance. The captain swivels behind it. The second punch Fenris can’t dodge, and this time it sends him spinning to the ground.

The captain chuckles. “Thought you were supposed to be dangerous.”

Hawke lets out a breath. Well, that wasn’t pleasant, but at least it’s done—

Fenris plants his hands and pushes himself off the floor.

No. No, no, no. If he stays down this is over, why is he getting up? Hawke cuts in quickly. “Right then. Time for us to—“

“Wait just a minute there.” The captain nods at Fenris. “See, he’s still got something left. We’re gonna finish this out.”

Fuck. Hawke tries one more time. “This has already taken too long.”

“And it ain’t gonna take much longer. So shut your mouth and watch.”

Something in Hawke sparks against being ordered around like that, but he remains impassive and makes no further protest.

Fenris gets his feet back under him, and again his fingers curl into fists.

The captain attacks.

Fenris sways away from the punch. Damn it all. He can’t take a single step without compromising his balance. But then he strikes out, and the momentum is enough to bring him back to center again. The captain blocks and counters. Fenris just barely hops outside the arm, and then he grabs it, using it as a support while he throws a fist at the captain’s face.

It gets him square in the mouth and snaps his head back. In another situation that hit would have put him on the ground, but Fenris couldn’t step into it to lend it power so the captain just snarls, yanks his arm out of Fenris’s grasp, and kicks at his bad leg.

The leg collapses. Fenris crashes to a knee, and the next kick strikes him in the jaw and spins him to the floor. He plants his hands again but this time the captain’s foot comes down on the side of his face, pinning him there.

All right. _Now_ it’s got to be over. Fenris stills, his back rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

“Not so tough after all, eh?” The man crouches. He’s a little breathless, and his lower lip is bleeding. “There you are, under my boot. Right where you belong.”

Hawke is the only one who spots it. None of the other guards move, nor the captain. Fenris’s palms rotate just a little so he can brace himself better, and then he’s twisting over, surging to his feet as Hawke lunges forward. The lyrium glows in brilliant white-blue. The captain wheels backward, and Fenris grabs the front of his shirt—

Hawke catches Fenris’s wrist from behind before he can jab the flat blade of his hand into the captain’s throat. Even hurt like this he’s so bloody _strong,_ and Hawke struggles, wrapping around to grab Fenris’s other wrist. The lyrium flares hot under his palms. Fuck. He spins, wrenching the captain’s shirt out of Fenris’s grip and pointing him towards the wall so that when—

Hawke’s hands close around nothing as Fenris lets the lyrium overtake his forearms. No longer held captive, he stumbles forward, catching himself on the wall. Hawke finds guards moving up on either side, and he flings out his arms, warding them back. _“I will take care of this.”_

No more motion in his peripheral vision. Thank the Maker. “This is why I was hired,” Hawke adds. “I’ll thank all of you to stay well back.”

They retreat. Good. No one to interfere.

Fenris turns.

Hawke has never seen that kind of anger. The lyrium blazes now as bright as it ever has, and Fenris’s face is set in cold, clear fury. For the first time he opens his blood-cracked lips and speaks. “Get out of my way.”

Hawke stands just where he is, blocking Fenris from the rest of the men. “No.”

This can’t happen. This situation needs to stay contained, and Hawke’s the only one who can ensure that. Even if he’s got to hold Fenris back to do it.

Fenris launches himself off the wall.

There’s an edge on his strikes, something that makes them arrive a little faster than Hawke anticipates. The first one clips his cheek, and the second bashes into his ear when he can’t quite divert it. Hawke ascribes it to the lyrium. Fenris doesn’t know much about his markings, despite how long he’s had them; but they seem to come alive of their own accord at times. Fenris has the measure of his bad leg by now, and of how to attack to compensate for it. Hawke takes a third hit to the shoulder and a fourth to the ribs.

But that’s all he needs to adjust. The next time Fenris attacks Hawke grabs his wrist again and slips behind him, twisting his arm behind his back. Fenris arches at the pressure on his shoulder; Hawke knocks his broken foot out from under him, and he goes down, landing flat on his front. Hawke goes with him and plants a knee on his spine. Fenris’s shirt has been pulled aside, and above his collar the raw, crusted brand stares Hawke in the face.

Over. Finally, over. Hawke takes a deep breath.

Fenris flattens his palm on the floor. His muscles tense, and slowly his hips begin to rise. Hawke finds himself being lifted into the air.

A muted rush of panic flutters in his chest. He isn’t sure why. It’s not because he can’t stop this. He can still stop it. With his free hand he grabs Fenris’s braced arm and yanks it away. Fenris falls with a grunt back to the floor, once more pinned by Hawke’s weight.

He pulls his knees up a little. Again his hips begin to rise. Fuck. Hawke scrambles for something to do, something that can put an end to this. He gathers up what little Tevene he knows and barks, _“Etiam te amo!”_

Fenris stills.

Hawke takes a breath, and another. And another. The room is silent. The lyrium dims, the searing white-blue ceding to the flicker of the torches on the wall.

It’s over.

Hawke hangs his head for a brief moment before shifting his weight to the other knee, off of Fenris’s back. One of the guards pipes up. “What language was that?”

“Tevene.” He releases Fenris’s wrists. “He’s an escaped slave. You can tell by the tattoos. Sometimes they just need to hear some orders in their native tongue to remind them of their place.” It wasn’t an order, of course. It was a hastily cobbled phrase, but the only thing he could think to say in the moment.

_I still love you._

The same man, in a tremulous voice. “You—how d’you know all that?”

“I used to hunt them. Escaped slaves.” Hawke shifts back, crouching. “That’s why Cormac brought me on. I’m retired now, the Marches and Nevarra both cracked down hard a couple of years back. But I’ve still got the skills.”

No reply. They won’t question him now. Because he just subdued a dangerous, glowing elf, yes; but also because they think him a slave hunter, a man whose morals lie perhaps even below theirs, if they exist at all. Hawke stands, hauling Fenris to his feet. “All right. I’m bringing him upstairs.”

No one stops him.

He takes Fenris out of the room, down the hall to the staircase. The climb isn’t easy, but they manage it, Hawke going ahead of Fenris and hauling him up. At last they reach the top. The hallway there is lined with doors. Where’s the exit? There, all the way to the left. Little piles of slush glitter in the flickering torchlight.

He goes left. Someone comes out of a room and strides past them. Hawke doesn’t slow. The end of the hall. He reaches out and turns the handle.

They step out into a light flurry of snow.

Away. That’s the most important thing. In the light of the near-full moon, Hawke guides Fenris down a narrow street, crosses Skinner’s Square and ducks into a cramped alley. “Here,” he breathes, pausing for a moment to shuck his cloak and button it around Fenris’s shoulders. “So nobody’ll spot you.” He pulls the hood up—

“Get away from me,” Fenris mumbles, and pushes him away.

But as he does it he starts to fall, and Hawke lunges forward to steady him again.This time he shoves Hawke with enough force to send him stumbling. “GET AWAY FROM ME!”

He smacks into the wall, staggering before he manages to find his feet. Hawke’s back thumps into the opposite wall. He stays there, speechless.

From beneath the hood Fenris’s blackened, shining eyes lock onto him. “How could you do that? _How could you do that to me?!”_

Hawke stares, abashed. “I—I’m sorry, it was the best way I could think of—” 

“The best way? The _best?_ It was the _easiest,_ Hawke! There is a difference!”

“No, I—I had to keep them believing I was—“

“Do not _talk_ to me as if I don’t know what you were doing!” He’s furious, his shouting magnified in the narrow alley. “If they think you’re just a slave hunter who came to steal me away, then the matter is done and they’ll still be there when you bring Aveline down on them tomorrow, isn’t that right?”

Hawke flinches. “Y—yes.“

“So you decided to submit me to further humiliation. You _participated_ in it! _Even after I asked you not to!”_

Not out loud, but that look they shared in the hallway— “Fenris, they would have hurt you even worse—“

Fenris lets out a growl of frustration, and his fist thumps into the stone wall. “Do you think I did not know that?! I knew, Hawke! _I would have preferred it!”_

Hawke stands there and doesn’t know what to say.

“But you couldn’t have that.” Fenris’s lip curls in contempt. “If we’d fought our way out, they would have gone into hiding. You would have had to track them down again. And all those informants and bribes, all those days of waiting, that’s just too messy, isn’t it? You’re Rowan Hawke, you love your clever schemes, you have to tie everything off with a neat little bow—humiliating the man you claim to love, that’s just a trifle, really. Isn’t it? After all, that was my life for ten years, being humiliated, every day, without anyone else to turn to. What harm could just a little more do? _What harm?”_

Hawke realizes he’s made a bad mistake. A very bad mistake. “I’m sorry,” he says distantly. The words fade fast in the cold, dry air. An apology won’t fix it. He can’t fix it. He’s hurt Fenris worse than any brutish thug ever could, and he didn’t even realize it.

And he thought it was the right thing to do.

Silence. Tiny white flakes fall between the buildings above them, glowing in the moonlight. Fenris sags against the wall. The outburst seems to have sapped all his energy. “Please help me. I cannot walk on my own.”

Hawke comes forward. He can do this, at least. “Do you want to go to the clinic?”

Fenris nods.

“I think it’ll be fastest if you get on my back. Is that all right?”

Another nod. Hawke kneels in the alley. The snow soaks through the knees of his trousers.

The streets are quiet. Too cold for anyone to linger outside. Fenris’s breathing hitches in his ear. Hawke tries to keep the jostling to a minimum, but there’s only so much he can do. As he goes Fenris’s words turn over and over in his head. He should have thought of that himself. Shouldn’t have had to hear it from the man he loves. The man he hurt. Snow crunches beneath his boots. Fenris must be cold, even with the cloak.

A little breeze scampers down the street, lifting a swirl of fine white powder from the ground. Hawke ducks his head as it sweeps over him. On his back he feels Fenris shifting, burying his face in Hawke’s neck.

The breeze dies down. The street is silent again but for the sound of bootsteps through the snow.

“You were right,” Hawke says. “I was selfish. I am selfish.”

No reply. Fenris’s breath is warm against his skin.

When they arrive at the clinic he kicks at the door until the lock clicks and Anders appears, rubbing his eyes. “Come on—oh, Hawke.”

Hawke slips inside. “Sorry to wake you. We needed your help.” He sets Fenris down on the sickbed and unbuttons the cloak, letting it pool on the bare wood. Fenris blinks slowly, resting his broken hands on his knees.

“Oh, Maker—what happened?!” Anders comes over and halts, bewildered, as if he doesn’t know where to start.

Hawke opens his mouth to say something but Fenris speaks first. “They forced me to fight. Until I couldn’t anymore.”

“Maker’s bones.” Anders runs a hand through his unbound hair. “Well, I hate to tell you this, but Eugenia Mince was in here earlier tonight with her hip bone in five pieces, so I don’t have all that much left in me.”

“I will be grateful for whatever healing you can provide,” Fenris mutters.

“Here, let me get your shirt off.” Anders reaches out.

Hawke moves away to give him room and then stops, hovering by the door. He wants to help—the awful _wrongness_ of Fenris’s battered state lodged in his throat like a cherry stone—yet he fears his very presence may only make things worse. Because his own transgressions tonight must be lodged in Fenris’s chest as well, less a cherry stone than the narrow blade of an assassin’s knife—

“I don’t want this to happen to me anymore,” Fenris says quietly. His head is bowed, his back exposed to the cool air. Behind him Anders folds up the bloodied shirt.

Hawke rests a hand on the wall beside him. All those bruises. He saw the bouts, he _knew_ what Fenris would look like, yet for some reason the ugly purple-black spreading like rot beneath Fenris’s tattoos comes as a shock that turns his stomach.

“All right,” Anders sighs. “Let me put your bones back together—“

“Wait,” Fenris interrupts, and grasps at his own shoulder. “Can you heal this first? So that it doesn’t leave a mark?”

Anders chews his lip. “Well, I _can,_ although that’s going to take some effort.”

“Please. It is important to me.”

“If that’s what you want.” Anders stands at Fenris’s side and places his fingers on the blackened brand.

Hawke goes to the door, stops, and turns. “I need to go talk to Varric, clean all this up.”

Anders nods. “Go ahead. I’ve got plenty of work to do.”

Hawke stands there a moment more. He notices how Anders’s shirt is bunched up, clutched tight in Fenris’s still-broken hand.

He leaves them and heads up to Lowtown.

——

He talks with Varric for over an hour. First, the dissemination of false information to preserve his cover. _Notorious slave hunter Carver Demesne spotted in Kirkwall. A bearded man with an elf in tow seen purchasing passage to Tevinter late last night._ Then preemptive damage control. A lot of money and influence pass through the Iron Ring, and the shutting-down of the Darktown venue will rile up plenty of anger.

Varric shifts and grimaces and writes down lists of names only to ball up the parchment and throw it away a minute later, but not once does he attempt to dissuade Hawke from raiding the ring. The act doesn’t make sense; it’ll stir up far more chaos than Darktown needs, and it’s only a matter of months before a new ring pops up somewhere.

But for Hawke it’s personal, and not even Varric’s honeyed words will convince him to stand down. Varric knows him well by now and doesn’t even try.

By the time Hawke makes his way back down to the clinic it’s nearly dawn. He only knocks this time, and a moment later Anders is at the door again, motioning him inside.

“How is he?” Hawke asks.

“Resting.” Anders gestures at the back of the clinic, at his closed bedroom door. “There wasn’t all that much I could do, unfortunately. Not now, anyway. What happened to him?”

“Darktown politics,” Hawke replies. “He was…collateral damage.”

Anders leans back against his desk. “Well, you’re not wrong about the damage. I fixed the brand and patched up some of his ribs before I ran dry, but…Maker. It just felt like a drop in the bucket. Forced to fight, he said? Until he couldn’t anymore?”

Hawke nods once.

Anders makes a noise of disgust. “He may be an ass, but even he doesn’t deserve that.”

Hawke keeps his mouth shut. He’s afraid if he says anything Anders will see it. See the fault.

“I’ve got to open the clinic tomorrow, but whatever I have left afterwards I’m saving for him,” Anders continues. “Figured it would be easier if he just slept here, and he agreed to it. Oh—he said to tell you that he’s ‘going on the raid tonight?’ I told him he’s not in any bloody condition to be raiding anything, but he was very firm. With some luck, maybe he’ll sleep through it.”

“No. He needs to come with us. I’ll pick him up when it’s time.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Hawke—I’m going to do what I can, but he’ll still be in no shape—“

“If he wants to go, he should go,” Hawke cuts in. “I’ll be there to keep an eye on him.”

Hawke waits out Anders’s truculent glare. Anders may not be particularly fond of Fenris, but he is a healer and Fenris his patient, and that is a bond outside any disagreement or enmity. Finally Anders waves a hand. “Fine. But if you drag him back here all bloodied and battered again, then you and I are going to have words.”

Hawke can’t look at Anders anymore, and he drops his eyes. “I understand. Just…” His gaze slides up again, to the closed bedroom door.

“I’ll take care of him, Hawke. I promise.” Anders hesitates. “Listen—is something wrong? Besides, well, Fenris. You seem…off.”

Hawke doesn’t reply for a second. _The bruises weren’t the worst of it. I was the worst of it. I ignored his boundaries. I humiliated him like the magisters used to do. I didn’t think twice about it. He trusted me. He trusted me._

He shakes his head convulsively. “N—no. Nothing important.”

Anders heaves a resigned sigh. “If you say so. Now go get some rest, you look terrible.”

Hawke cracks half a smile at that and turns to go. Back up to Hightown, to the keep; Aveline will be on duty by now, and he needs to tell her what’s happened.

And then to the estate for some bloody sleep, if he can manage it with the guilt resting heavy on his shoulders, crushing him down to nothing.

——

The raid goes smoothly.

Aveline and her guards sweep in just as the night’s getting started. Spectators are allowed to go; employees are arrested. Hawke and Fenris go ahead of everyone else and into the back. The captain is sitting in the break room with a pint of ale while a couple of guardsmen play cards at the other table. Hawke cages in the captain while Fenris engages both of the guards. The captain is laughably unskilled but Hawke does not kill him. He has one more purpose to fulfill.

By the time Fenris has knocked out the guards Hawke has his knife at the captain’s throat. “Please—” the man gasps, “I surrender, I surrender!“

Hawke’s eyes flick to the doorway, and he nods at Fenris. No one coming. Fenris approaches. None of the cold, hard fury now. Hawke recognizes the charged high of victory, the unequaled satisfaction of enforcing one’s superiority over an enemy. He knows the feeling well. There’s nothing else like it. Fenris’s markings starts to glow, and his right hand washes out into a spectre of light. The man struggles for a brief second. Then Hawke’s dagger slices a generous cut into the thin skin at his neck, and he stops, terrified.

Fenris is relaxed, his body shedding the tension of the altercation with the guards. He gently sinks his arm into the man’s chest and gazes into his eyes. “As it should be,” he says. 

Hawke clamps a hand around the man’s throat to keep him quiet as Fenris releases the lyrium. The man arches, and he coughs out a choked scream of pain. Fenris steps away. In his palm is cupped a hunk of tissue, the ragged edges of some shining white membrane torn off at the top. His hand is coated in red up to the wrist. The man’s body heaves. Blood splatters messily to the stone floor. Hawke steps back and lets the corpse crumple at his feet. There. He hopes that’s gone a little way toward making up what he did to Fenris last night.

The thud of footsteps, and Aveline appears in the doorway. “What happened? Are the two of you all right?”

“Fine,” Hawke tells her, then nods at the captain. “He resisted.”

Aveline lifts an eyebrow at the two of them. Fenris tosses the extracted heart onto the corpse without ceremony and looks up. 

Then Aveline nods. “Shame we couldn’t take him alive,” she says, not even trying to pretend she means it. She was just as horrified as Anders was when she saw Fenris earlier. “We’re almost done, just sweeping up the dregs.”

“Good.” Fenris seems a little different now, some of the volatility gone out his posture. He kneels and cleans off his bloodied hand on the captain’s tunic.

Aveline stays behind when it’s over, but she lets Fenris and Hawke go early. Hawke asks if Fenris would like to head back to the clinic, as, despite Anders’s additional efforts this evening, he’s still rather hurt; but Fenris declines.

So Hawke helps him up the stairs back to Hightown.

His knee is healed, and his foot. Heavy blooms of purple-black remain on his jaw and doubtless everywhere else as well. In Hightown Hawke walks with him through the market square and down the street; then he finds Fenris has paused, although they have not arrived at the mansion yet. Hawke stops as well.

Oh. The estate is only a few yards ahead.

“You can stay here tonight, if you like,” Hawke says gently.

Fenris nods.

It’s late and Bodahn is asleep, so Fenris chooses his own guest room. Hawke helps get his armor off; he mentioned earlier that some of the bones in his hands are still broken, and he is slow with the buckles and straps. When his armor is piled on the ground he walks stiffly to the washroom, pulling his shirt over his head with obvious pain. 

“D’you want help?” Hawke asks.

Fenris stops. The candlelight throws shadows over his bruised back, the corded muscles there, the contour of his spine. His green eyes glitter as he looks over his shoulder, narrowed in a muted remnant of anger. Hawke knows what it means. _The last time I was vulnerable and you came to me promising help, you broke my trust._

“Please,” Hawke says quietly.

Fenris is silent a moment more, but he jerks his head, motioning Hawke into the washroom. 

Hawke washes him with care, applying only the lightest of pressure as he draws the wet cloth over Fenris’s skin. Little bubbles of soap collect in the scrapes on his arms. He hunches his shoulders and will not look Hawke in the eye. Not because of shame, Hawke thinks. Because his anger has calmed some, and he does not want to risk reigniting it. Anger is tiring and he is exhausted and hurt.

Hawke can hardly believe the bruises. So many, for such a thin body. Sometimes he’ll press just a bit too hard and Fenris will flinch as if struck. Hawke will step back and wait a second and watch Fenris’s swollen hands curl into fists. 

_You didn’t deserve this,_ Hawke wants to say. But he can imagine the response. _Didn’t deserve what? You kicking my legs out from under me and kneeling on my back?_

He keeps his thoughts to himself. Fenris stands with his head bowed and waits for the process to be over.

When he’s made sure there are enough blankets and pillows and extra clothes, Hawke heads upstairs to his own bedroom. Even after the long nap he took during the day, he’s still exhausted, and sleep takes him quickly. But at one point during the night he’s roused by the creaking of the door. He raises his head.

Fenris slips inside and closes the door behind him, climbing into Hawke’s bed. He curls up on the far side and says nothing. Hawke stays where he is, gazing for a moment at Fenris’s turned back; then he rests his head on the pillow again and shuts his eyes.

He rouses late, the sun already streaming bright beneath the thick burgundy curtains. As he slides out of bed he notices Fenris shifting, rubbing his eyes with scabbed knuckles. Hawke leans down next to him and murmurs, “You can go back to sleep, I’ll only be a moment.”

Fenris blinks at him, then turns over and pulls the covers back up.

It’s more than a moment, but Hawke returns bearing a tray he put together with Bodahn’s help. This time Fenris’s eyes open wide, and he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Hawke sets the tray down on the night table with great care, lest the tea spill from the two overfull cups, or the sausages descend from their precarious pyramid to run rampant over the rest of the dishes. “I brought us breakfast.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Fenris reaches out for the tea. “Trying to earn my forgiveness?”

Hawke pulls up an armchair and flops down with a sigh. “No, I don’t think so.”

Fenris lifts an eyebrow.

Hawke shrugs. “I mean, it isn’t something that really deserves forgiveness, is it?”

Fenris nods, mollified, and takes a sip of his tea.

They eat in silence for a short while. Then Fenris sits back, pulling the blankets over his legs. “How did you know where I was?”

Right. They haven’t talked about this yet. Hawke rubs his fingers on a linen napkin. “Heard there was a big event going on. I came to watch. Didn’t know you would be there.”

“So you saw the bouts.”

“Yes.”

Fenris stares at the tray, thoughtful. “You used to fight there. I saw the mark on your back.”

“No. Not there,” Hawke says. “I fought in Lowtown. Athenril pointed me there. It’s not quite as…barbaric. They make you wear gloves, for one, padded gloves. And when you win a title you don’t get the mark branded into you. Just a tattoo.”

“Ah. You won a title.”

Hawke taps his fingers on the arm of the chair. “They gave me a shot at it three months in. Lost that time, but I won a couple of months later. Then I held it until I quit, maybe three months after that. This was all before I met you.”

“You quit?”

“Yes. Never went back in the ring.”

“You were paid, were you not? Wouldn’t it have helped you raise money for the expedition?”

Hawke exhales, hesitating. How should he say this? “I was…ashamed.”

“Hm.” Fenris watches him now, levelly. “Maybe, but not of the fighting.”

Hawke doesn’t reply.

“You fit in too well. You liked it too much.” Fenris reaches for his teacup. “That’s why you left and never came back.”

Hawke sits there as Fenris drinks. His mother is dead, his brother and sister are dead. So now it’s Fenris. Fenris who knows him better than anyone. “Bethany could tell,” he says. “She would always frown at me when I came back with my face smashed in. And she’d tell me, ‘you really shouldn’t be doing that, Rowan. Please, just stop it.’ “ He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have taken me that long to leave. But I couldn’t let go of it.”

Fenris snorts. “You still can’t. Or else you wouldn’t have been there last night, watching them beat me until I couldn’t stand anymore.”

Hawke winces. “I…do still attend the fights, occasionally. But that was the first I’d gone to in over a year. I’ve been trying.”

“Then I suggest you try harder.”

“Well, I’m not bloody going back after that.” He rubs his forehead.

They’re quiet for a little while. Fenris resumes eating, so Hawke does too, until the tray is empty. So Hawke puts his saucer back on the tray and starts to rise—

“It’s something I admire about you. Hawke.”

He freezes, then sits back down.

Fenris runs absent fingers through his hair, drawing his bangs back from his face. “The ability to make a decision based only on the facts of the situation, to achieve the most ideal outcome. Far better than letting yourself be swayed at every instant by your emotions.”

Hawke, a bit blindsided by all this, can only come up with “Oh.”

Then Fenris’s eyes lock on him and narrow. “But you do need to take care. Confidence is a stone’s throw away from arrogance, and this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed that gap.”

“No,” Hawke mutters. “Just the worst.”

Fenris curls his fingers into the blanket. “I know there are parts of me that are—inconvenient,“ he begins.

“Maker, Fenris—“ Hawke rises, then halts. Fenris allowed casual touches before, enjoyed them, even; but things are not the same now, and Hawke will not assume access to him. “You’re not inconvenient. That isn’t what happened. I’m an ass is what happened.”

The bruise at the corner of Fenris’s mouth shifts as he half-smiles. “At least you admit it. That’s a start.” He takes a deep, careful breath. “I’m still angry with you.”

Well-deserved. Hawke waits.

Fenris reaches out, grasps his shirt, and tugs just a little.

Hawke climbs up on the bed, and Fenris pushes against his shoulder, guiding him back. So he leans against the headboard and pulls Fenris into him and holds him close. Fenris winces slightly at the pressure on his bruised ribs, so Hawke lets him go, lets him settle in a more comfortable position. He sits sideways, resting his head on Hawke’s shoulder, his legs folded over Hawke’s thigh. _“Etiam te amo,”_ he murmurs.

Hawke runs a hand lightly down his back.

“Your Tevene is good,” Fenris continues. “I didn’t know you could speak it.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t, really. Just some scraps here and there, from the books in the library.”

“Hm.” Fenris turns his face into Hawke’s chest. “Hawke—I need you.”

Hawke’s breath catches in his throat, and he must force himself to let it out.

“Do you understand? I need you. I can’t do this by myself.”

“You have me. I know I—“ He stops, rearranging his thoughts. “I don’t know what’s happened to me. There was a time when doing that to you would have been…unthinkable. I’m sorry, I just—I’ll work harder. You’re more important to me than anything. I won’t hurt you again.”

Fenris rests a hand at Hawke’s hip. “You'd better not,” he mumbles.

Not something that deserves forgiveness. But Hawke thinks he needs the open wound, the burn of pain when that part of him rises up to reach out its grasping fingers. He doesn’t want this to happen to Fenris again. Ever. Especially not by his own hand. 

For a moment Fenris sits there quietly, curled into Hawke's chest. Then he heaves a sigh and extracts himself, sliding off the bed. “I’m going back to the mansion.”

“Oh,” Hawke says, though he hadn’t meant to.

Fenris is in Hawke’s shirt; it’s too big on him, and he starts to roll up the sleeves with stiff fingers. His forearms are dark with bruises. “I will see you again in a few days.”

Which translates into _don’t come looking for me, I’ll come back when I’m ready._ Perfectly reasonable. More than reasonable.

Then he’s out the door, leaving Hawke alone. 

He sits there for a minute, staring at nothing, stuck on the image of Fenris’s eyes flashing in anger across the snowy alleyway. Thinking back, he’s half-stunned not by what he did but by how clear and simple it seemed to him at the time. How _right._

Fenris deserves better than that. So he’s going to have to be better. Hawke rests an absent hand on his chest. He can still feel the weight of Fenris’s thin body against his own. That’s something worth changing for.

He hopes he can change.


End file.
